Premonition
Throw around legs
Throwaway hair
Biting her tongue
Tapping the chair
Dinnertime psychology
Filling her frayed mind
Undigested memories
Too bitter to be confined
Eighteen years
Blurred as if one
Opaque footsteps
Of a misbegotten son
“Dessert, mom?”
“No thanks, dear.”
Her plate is empty
Her conscience clear
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